


are memories worse than nightmares?

by owardenmywarden



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Original Work
Genre: Gen, I don't think anything else applies??, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-16
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-13 02:17:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16008212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owardenmywarden/pseuds/owardenmywarden
Summary: it's been a while since kerai's parents were assassinated. doesn't stop him from thinking about them, though.





	are memories worse than nightmares?

**Author's Note:**

> it's him, the boy again...... you know the deal, if u wanna know more shoot me an ask [here](http://owardenmywarden.tumblr.com)

He’s awake.

He shouldn’t be awake. He knows he went to sleep two hours ago. He knows he should, probably, go back to sleep. But… he also knows that the thought is enough to terrify him, make closing his eyes harder based on what he could see behind his eyelids.

So, he’s awake. Thinking thoughts he doesn’t want to think, sitting at the desk in his room with his head thrown back to look at the ceiling.

Every time he decides that he’s glad they’re dead, remembers that he’s better off with them gone, he finds himself remembering things that make it harder. His mother’s genuine smile rare as it was. The way his father would read to him some nights. Birthdays, being told they were proud of him in a way that rang obvious in their voices. The horrible things they did, the things he has to laugh about because otherwise he’ll scream, are remembered still. Are what make him wake up two hours after he goes to sleep, are what scares him about sleeping now.

He remembers them, but sometimes they don’t seem to matter as much as the other moments. The ones that happened less often.

Gold is more valuable because it’s rare. He supposes the same principle applies.

He exhales, slow and soft, and rolls the stone idly in his right hand.

It feels unfair. It feels like another thing they took from him, the ability to hate them. It feels like he’s the only one mourning them. It feels…

It feels like he wants to go home. He can’t remember where it is, other than it should be here but isn’t, not really. Places stopped meaning home a long time ago. Home felt like someplace he wouldn’t wake screaming. He supposes that’d be hard to find, now.

He stands, the chair scraping back and making him flinch with the broken silence. When he reaches the door, when sudden phantom pain doesn’t make him flinch, he wonders what happened to records of him. Who he used to be. If there was still a missing person report, if there ever was one in the first place.

He wonders, almost idly, if he’s allowed to ask for records of him to be destroyed. If they’d actually do it, what Despair’s face would look like if he asked.

He goes downstairs, almost cradling his left arm despite knowing it wouldn’t do anything.

It occurs to him, like it had before, that if he hadn’t run away he wouldn’t have phantom pain to worry about.

But if he hadn’t run away, he wouldn’t have family to call.

So.

He transfers the stone to his left hand, his right absentmindedly running over the dagger engraving. He leans against the wall next to the door and he only hesitates for a split second before calling.

“Hey, Attie,” he says when it’s answered, knowing he sounds tired, knowing he sounds rough, but already feeling better. “Did I wake you?”


End file.
